


Rooted

by badgerpride89



Series: Fruit of the Vine [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Reverse Omens au, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 06:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20670833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerpride89/pseuds/badgerpride89
Summary: It's 1800, the Arrangement is in full swing, and the angel Jophiel's superiors demand he return home.Trouble is, he's already home.





	Rooted

“I’m being what?” Jophiel stammers through the well of anger rushing up inside him. A few feet away, Gabriel rolls his eyes while Sandalphon stalks between them.

“Let me make this clear, Jophiel,” Gabriel enunciates slowly as Sandalphon closes the gap, a dark smile on his face, all intimidation. Jophiel would like to say he wasn’t quaking in his boots but, well, he’s never been very good at lying. “It’s quite simple. You are a failure. Your tenure here on Earth has been nothing but one embarrassment after another. We have tried being patient, we have tried guiding you, but at the end of the day, you are still a failure. You are being kicked back upstairs so that a competent angel can take your place. Is that understood?”

For a split second, he thinks that Sandalphon is going to hit him. For a split second, Jophiel wishes he would; at least then he’d have an excuse to deck him.

But before he can do more, Jophiel spots Ziminiar as the demon stops a block away, out of the others' line of sight. He’s carrying Jophiel’s favorite flowers, and actually wearing a neat, decently tailored coat instead of his usual ratty one. Jophiel’s anger freezes at the sight. He cannot afford a scene with the demon so close by, not if he wants Ziminiar alive and whole at the end of the day. With great effort, he breathes in deeply and exhales, tries to let it go. He struggles more than an angel of the Almighty should. And that's the crux of the problem, really.

He doesn’t bother with the smile Ziminiar might use. Instead, Jophiel bares his teeth and grabs his lapels, beige over a new pale orange waistcoat Ziminiar had gifted him after the Bastille debacle, as he snarls, “Well, I’m sorry you think that. Spend a few centuries down here yourself and then tell me you could do a better job. You don’t get to judge me or my work without doing it yourself.”

“That is the point of reassigning you,” Gabriel says, this side of mocking. “I’m sure Michael can clean up your mess.”

Jophiel scowls and swallows his actual response. “How long until Michael’s due?”

“Three days. Make sure the shop’s ready for her. I’m sure even you can manage that,” Gabriel sneers as he and Sandalphon walk past him. The telltale jangle of angelic teleportation follows them.

He waits one, two, ten counts before opening his eyes again. Ziminiar is walking towards him, the flowers in his hand drooping. Wordlessly, he pulls Jophiel into a hug, squashing the flowers between them. Jophiel holds him hard, lets the demon’s softness and low endearments soothe the tension from his shaking body.

“I can’t go back, Zima,” he whispers as he digs his fingers into Ziminiar’s too stiff great coat, suddenly missing that ratty old one.

He can’t go back. Heaven is devoid of color, of lively, painted lights, of growing things. It stifles everything within that cage, chokes it all in the pot under too harsh and too cold lights, and now that Jophiel has lived so long in the warm sun, free to grow and plant roots in full soil, he cannot go back. Not now, not when he knows better.

“Oh, my dear,” Ziminiar says, pulling back a little. His blue eyes are hard in a way Jophiel hasn’t seen since the Crucifixion. “You won’t have to. That I promise.”

Jophiel blinks his golden eyes. Ziminiar never _promises_ anything to Jophiel. Too much like a demonic contract, he says. “Wh-Ziminiar, what are you saying?”

Ziminiar gently places the bouquet into Jophiel’s hands. The flowers follow no language known to man; instead, they’re colors and species which have special meaning to the two of them. Daylilies for the first plague in the 1300's, cosmos for The Tempest showing they went to in the 1600's, white roses from the Bastille, blue butterfly bush for the Arrangement, and dark purple lavender.

“You heard me,” he replies simply, his cool voice obscuring the utter occasion of his words.

Jophiel clears his throat. It's all he can do really. He doesn't think Ziminiar will succeed, can't think that because it will make going back even more unbearable. Even so, Ziminiar's promise fills him with an indescribable warmth. It alone could sustain him for centuries, like a succulent holding onto a single drop of water for months or even years. It will have to.

“Three days, he said?” Jophiel nods. Ziminiar pats his arm. “Plenty of time, then. I am afraid that I will have to postpone our show-”

“Show?” Jophiel asks dumbly.

Ziminiar chuckles. Once Jophiel might have thought the demon was laughing at him but he knows better now. Ziminiar likes winding him up and watching him take on the world, as he put it back in the 1500s.

“My dear, you really think a simple bouquet is congratulations enough for so monumental a moment? Or that I would stoop so low as to only offer a bouquet for a triumph like this? Clearly we have seen too little of one another lately if you think so little of yourself and me,” his voice teeters between teasing and scolding.

The lump in Jophiel's throat returns, this time borne of emotion too dangerous to name. It's more than anyone has done for me in centuries, he wants to say. It's more than I ever expected, even back then when our arrangement was new and fragile, and all I had was the hope I could trust you. I could not expect this. I never looked for it and now I've found a demon who cares more than all of Heaven put together. But to say all of it out loud, after such a close brush with his superiors is inviting trouble. He thinks, he hopes that Ziminiar knows anyway.

“Four days from now is Sunday, will you be available to beat the church crowds to an early lunch?”

He wants to say, _for you, I'm always available_. It almost scares him, how much he wants to say it. Instead, he nods. Ziminiar pats his arm again and releases him.

“Splendid, splendid. I'll come round ten. Do be ready, my dear.”

* * *

Saturday midnight chimes and Jophiel thinks he'll vomit. He paces his shop once, twice, thrice, memorizes the curves, counts the stars he can barely make out from the glass ceilings, visualizes each row of herbs, each bush, each flower he’d planned to grow. He hadn’t even the chance to purchase his seed stock. Still, perhaps there’s a blessing in that. No growing thing to leave to Michael’s cold care. She’d struggle for a while trying to figure out how it all worked. The thought fills him with a strange satisfaction.

By dawn, he’s too annoyed to be properly anxious anymore. Of all the times for his fellows to pick up human hours, this is perhaps the worst. He grumbles and rolls his eyes, quietly mutters that it just fits, doesn’t it. Well. If they have such a low opinion of his time, then sod it. He snaps his favorite waistcoat and hat on and stalks out of the shop. Not like they need him to get in.

He finds his favorite paper shop, pays the requisite fees, picks up a copy of every pamphlet, and just for the he-out of the goodness of his heart, blesses the owner and his three sons on his way out. The youngest boy gives him a wrinkled bit of brown carrying paper in thanks.

Jophiel walks into the nearest coffee shop and sits at the table by the window to better bask in the warming sun. He pointedly flicks one of his satires open and slowly begins reading. The royals really are such easy material it’s farcical. He’s through his second satire when he spots a piece of parchment in the bunch. Eyes widening, he leafs through the stack and pulls it out.

He reads.

He laughs. Long and full and _relieved_. Lighter than he’s felt in days.

“You absolute bastard,” he barks, never mind the attention he’s drawing.

Jophiel gathers his papers and rushes into the London masses.

He has a demon to properly thank, after all.

* * *

Jophiel is ready at half past nine the next morning. He leans against the shop’s door frame, trying and failing to look casual. No one pays him any mind, though, it is London, after all.

He spots the demon at 9:55 am precisely walking towards the shop with a satisfied smirk on his face. Ziminiar is wearing something between his usual old, worn affair and the quite fancy getup of a few days ago. Jophiel quite likes the touches of purple on his tail coat. It brings out the blue in the demon’s eyes.

“You absolute bastard,” Jophiel greets, grinning broadly.

Ziminiar tips his hat to Jophiel, then extends an arm. “Shall we?”

Jophiel curls his arm around Ziminiar’s, then steers the demon north. Ziminiar blinks, lips pursing in confusion. He clears his throat as Jophiel snickers. It’s so nice to catch him off guard.

“Join me for lunch? I’m buying,” the angel asks unnecessarily.

“Are you tempting me, my dear?” Ziminiar teases lightly.

Jophiel thwacks the demon. “Treating, Zima, treat. It’s an expression of gratitude, could even be an act of charity, getting you into my favorite salon looking like that.”

“Of course, of course,” Ziminiar indulges him.

Jophiel rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Is it the one with the-”

“Sure is,” Jophiel confirms.

“Really now, you needn’t go to the trouble,” Ziminiar tells him.

“You _needn’t go to the trouble_ either,” he pointedly mocks the demon, “but you did. So let me thank you. Honestly, me talking you into eating. What’s the world coming to?”

Ziminiar chuckles. “Well, we shall certainly find out. Together.”

Jophiel nods. “Together.”

They pass most of the day in the salon, Ziminiar sampling a little of everything the chef can conjure for him. Jophiel alternates between listening to the philosophical arguments, debating the merits of monarchy, and watching Ziminiar while the demon eats or participates himself. He drinks in the atmosphere, the buzz of new beginnings, and the call of companionship. It’s not Eden, it’s not Heaven. It’s something altogether better.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! Please leave any comment you like, from extra kudos to a favorite line. I like seeing what other people have to say about my work. I really appreciate it.


End file.
